


As we walk towards the light

by OrphielBurrito



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Epic Battles, F/M, Ferelden, I have no idea what I'm doing, King Alistair, Mild Smut, Multi, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-26 22:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15672738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphielBurrito/pseuds/OrphielBurrito
Summary: Set after the events of Dragon Age: Awakening with an original City Elf Warden (lover of King Alistair Theirin), this fic aims to relate the Ferelden point of view on what happens in Dragon Age II and Dragon Age Inquisition, with some original content and characters.





	1. Return to Ferelden

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank elfrooted and the writing group discord for being inspiring, fun and motivating. Particular thanks to Elpie for finding amazing nicknames that should appear in the next chapter.  
> Also, I have zero clue where this is going. Bear with me. I'll figure it out eventually.

The Warden returned to Denerim at the late hours of a rainy day, perched atop a horse that legends would later describe as darker than hell with eyes glowing like rubies.

In truth, good old Dagobert was but a big silly pony, inconspicuously bay, and his eyes were far from glowing red – they were, in fact, tired and drowsy. Even more than his rider, he seemed to rejoice that there was no delighted crowd to welcome them at the gate, not a soul to cheer on them as they walked wearily up to the Palace, not a soul save for the young farm boy who was to care for Dagobert.

The child never dared to look up, for he was too scared of the legend. He, like many others, had heard all of the tales about the Hero of Ferelden who defeated an Archdemon almost single-handedly, who saved the world from the Blight, who restored the throne to the Theirin bloodline. He had cheered and screamed and cried when the Grey Warden had appeared on the balcony to salute the people – and, much like the others, had not noticed the awkward smile, the slightly terrified gaze, or the obvious desire to retreat to the palace.

One could hardly blame a young child or even a delighted crowd for not noticing. In truth, the Warden was most impressive. She was of small stature, but her gaze had made more than a man recoil in fear, and the fact that she carried a sword that was as tall as she was did little to ease the general sentiment of dread that she inspired.

She seemed content enough with that fact.

  
  


By the age of five, Deirdre Tabris had already defeated three feral dogs, two older children and one unsuspecting shrub in combat. When asked to “calm down” or at least, please, for the love of Andraste, stop getting into fights with everything that moved and some things that didn’t, she punched a table and went brooding in her bedroom. The table was fine.

By the age of ten, her mother’s decision to properly train her in the arts of swordsmanship and combat had proven both an excellent and a terrible idea, depending on who was asked. Excellent, for it gave her a somewhat appropriate way to exorcise all of her energy and anger; terrible, because she had learnt how to do it  _ well _ and moved on from animals and greenery to grown-up humans. She, of course, had a very clear preference for picking fights with the human guards that were  _ supposed  _ to make the alienage a safe place. 

Not only was she already a little bundle of strength, more than capable of lifting twice her weight if the situation required it, she also had grown quite the tongue. When she wasn’t trying to provoke a guard into duelling her, she was dragging him into political and philosophical questions about the situation in the alienage and the way elves were being treated by humans. 

At the age of fourteen, Deirdre Tabris managed to escape prison by chatting her way through an unfortunate encounter with a bunch of guards who had thought to spend their off-duty moments chasing  _ pretty little elf girls  _ and had ended up being the prey rather than the predator. Decades later, when little Deirdre would be an adult and the legend of Ferelden, the guards would whisper that all in all, not fighting her, climbing a tree and hoping she would let them go was a good idea, albeit a somewhat humiliating one.

By the time of her eighteenth birthday, every single elf living in the alienage knew not to piss her off. 

 

Her mother’s death had made everything more difficult. Had made  _ her  _ more difficult. Tougher, more silent, more prone to fits of anger and bouts of isolation. Deirdre spent most of her days in isolation or training, fighting against any target that she would deem suitable. It didn’t matter anymore. If guards had seen her wielding a sword, they would have dragged her to Denerim’s dungeons or killed her on the spot, or so was what she kept being told by her family. Her only answer, in that characteristic deep voice that sounded like thunder, was  _ let them try. _

  
  


Even as she was hailed as the saviour of Ferelden, humans still stepped away from her, changed course to avoid her, gave her nasty looks. Being a hero and defeating an archdemon did not make her any less of an elf, probably carrying a dozen diseases and unable to read three sentences, a barbarian, a  _ savage.  _ Rumors of her mother’s Dalish heritage spread occasionally through Thedas, adding to the myth surrounding her -- and to the disdain inspired by her origin. Without her, Ferelden would have been destroyed by darkspawn, taken over by the Blight, and its population obliterated. Still, the humans, faithful to their old ways, all agreed that they would much rather have been saved by one of their own.

With a few exceptions, one of which was standing at the palace gate, grinning from ear to ear as the Hero of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, now Warden-Commander, walked towards him as fast as her armor would allow her.

“Welcome home,” whispered Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, before dragging his beloved into a kiss. 


	2. The Cheese King and the Murder Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why simply do an Exposition(tm) when you can add a Fluff(tm) to it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The armor worn by the Warden is the Sentinel armor found in DA: Awakening. Her sword is The Mother's Chosen, also found in the expansion, enchanted with grandmaster flame runes. Just for visualization help.

“When you said you loved my armor, I did not imagine you meant you loved it  _ scattered on the floor, _ ” mused the Warden with a smirk.

The remarkable chestpiece lay on the floor near the bed, its 1200 years old glory completely disrespected by the two lovers. It had belonged to the Warden who killed the first Archdemon and was just as terrifying as its current owner - pitch black with blood-red highlights. Did Alistair take the armor off in such a hurry partly because he, too, was at least slightly unnerved by its aspect? Most likely - and she would tease him about that later on.

“I missed you,” replied the king, interrupting his delicious activities in the area of her neck. “You were gone for quite a while and I couldn’t return to Amaranthine. 

\- Nobody forced you to make me Arlessa and give me more responsibilities. You know how I am with those. 

\- Nobody forces the king to do anything,” replied Alistair, quoting something she had told him right after the Landsmeet - what seemed to be eons ago. “Nobody except, perhaps, the Render of Souls, the Scourge of Men, the Thunder from Down Under, the Monster of the Moors, the Blighter of Wights, my dearly beloved --”

The king skillfully avoided the pillow that welcomed his tirade and proceeded to make his way further down his lover’s body, where she would be less inclined to try to hit him with various soft objects. 

“I heard you worked miracles and managed to save both the Keep and Amaranthine,” he continued, his attentions focusing on her chest, perhaps the only tender part of her body. “I also heard it was sodding expensive.

\- It’s not your money, my dearest, I dare say -- ah, Maker -- I dare say you do not get to…” the end of the sentence drowned into an unintelligible moan as teeth softly sunk into her flesh. The first time they had shared a tent had also been his first time at this sort of activity… but Alistair had always been a dutiful student, when the subject could manage to raise his interest. And Maker, did  _ this  _ subject raise it.

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” he smiled. “You know me, I  _ never _ complain.” That was not, by any stretch of the imagination, in any way true. “But I am curious. I left Vigil’s Keep in a dire situation, nearly all of our men dead, the fortress partly destroyed, and the latest news tell me it has withstood an army of darkspawn and our numbers are replenished… Not that I didn’t expect any less from you. Regardless, that whole conversation can happen sometimes later, I think.”

She would have said something, really, she would have -- some called her Silvertongued for her cunning and her ability to persuade even the most stubborn creature to listen to her -- but as the king’s mouth made a fateful trip down towards what he insisted on calling the Korcari Wilds, she found herself unable to speak.

  
  


“You’re  _ so  _ not eating cheese in bed,” grumbled Deirdre. 

“I’m the king. What’s the point of being king if I don’t get to eat cheese in bed?

\- I don’t even have an argument against that.

\- Excellent. Because I will keep on eating cheese in bed. Want a slice?”

Begrudgingly, she accepted the cheese. Of all the proofs of love he’d ever given her, sharing his cheese with her had to be one of the sweetest and most ridiculous, and she had never dared decline such a declaration. 

The rose he had offered her a long time ago had withered, of course, because such was the fate of flowers caught in the passage of time, but he made sure she would always wake up to see a fresh red rose on her bedside table when she was in Denerim. And, as if he had known she was to come back that evening, there was indeed a red rose sitting on her table. She smiled for herself and sighed, perfectly content.

“So, since you were asking, yes, everything is saved. Amaranthine should be restored to its former glory in a year and the Keep in five. I have excellent dwarven artisans working on it. The trading routes towards Denerim are safe, the farmlands have sustained a lot of damage, but I’m confident we can fix that too.” Without riots from the workers, she hoped. Taming riots was definitely not her forte: she preferred to instigate them. “And we have a number of new Grey Wardens. I recruited them myself.

\- Maker’s Breath. They must be… something. And by that, I mean, please tell me you didn’t find a way to recruit anyone weirder than our little troop.”

The silence that followed his sentence assured him that he would not like whatever was to follow. The king of Ferelden sighed deeply, grabbed another piece of cheese and prepared himself for what was to come.

“There’s Oghren and Anders, you met them. Oghren is… well, himself. He has a child, though, with Felsi. And he actually cares about them both. It’s sweet, really, when he doesn’t…” She illustrated what she meant by belching, causing Alistair to choke on a piece of cheese and burst out laughing.

“You’re disgusting. I love you.

\- Says the man who leaves his dirty socks everywhere and eats cheese in bed. Anyway, Oghren is now a Warden, for better or for worse. Probably for worse. Anders… Honestly, I’m still on the fence about this guy. He’s not the bravest man I’ve ever known or the sharpest tool in the shed. But he likes cats, so he’s probably not a bad guy. 

\- Your frame of reference will never cease to astonish me.

\- I offered him one. I have no clue why. The cat just… showed up, and I figured… I had to. The weirdest thing, really. I suspect this cat is not, in fact, a cat, but something entirely different that I will regret giving to him in no time.”

Most unfortunately, time would prove her right. But, for the moment, Ser Pounce-a-Lot and his human were cuddling in a most harmless way somewhere in Amaranthine, in between two training sessions of the Order’s new mages.

“And then… there’s a Dalish mage, Velanna. We’re not on the best of terms because of some… choices I made, but at least she’s not attacking people on our trading routes anymore. I think she went into the Deep Roads to look for her sister. There’s Sigrun, she’s a dwarf from the Legion of the Dead, which we should look into -- they’re basically like us. They kill darkspawn and consider themselves already dead. Really, it’s like the Order, but with less ceremony and more fun.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, without commenting on the fact that she still found it  _ fun _ to plunge her blade through living beings. Granted, most of those had asked for it and would have killed her if she hadn’t killed them first, but it was somewhat unsettling to share a bed with such a ruthless creature. His eyes wandered to her greatsword, a gigantic two-bladed weapon covered in flames and blood that she had abandoned near the door. She had found it during her trip in Amaranthine, like her armor, and apparently had decided to return with every single item that could make her look more terrifying. He loved her for that. 

“And, well… The last two, you might not like so much,” continued Deirdre, dragging the king away from his contemplation.

“There’s…  _ technically, _ he was already a Grey Warden, but he’s dead. His name was Kristoff. And now we have Kristoff’s body working for us.

\- … And who or  _ what _ exactly pilots Kristoff’s body? I’m almost afraid to ask…

\- A spirit of Justice. He’s a nice guy, really, I like him. He doesn’t talk much and gets shit done. My kind of man.

\- You… let a spirit from the Fade walk free?

\- Hey, desperate situation, desperate measures, alright? Besides, it’s Justice. It’s not like it was a bad thing, like Pride or, I don’t know. Death of all cheesemakers of Ferelden.

\- Alright, point taken. Go on -- I’m guessing I’m gonna like the last one even less.

\- Well, he’s a skilled rogue, I’ll give him that, and an actual nice person. He’s extremely good with   a bow. And at disarming traps. He worked wonders during the attack on the Keep and he’s now working to restore the Arling and his family’s name.

\- Which is…?

\- Howe. He’s the son of Rendon Howe.”

Alistair closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Tried to forget the last time he had set eyes on Arl Rendon Howe and his horrible torture chambers, tried to forget the poor sods their team had freed from the dungeon. Remembered that he loved, cherished and trusted the insane woman who was using his stomach as a pillow. Took yet another few deep breaths.

“Are you completely insane?!”


	3. A breath before the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A last moment of quiet before Deirdre leaves again - and this time for Orzammar, capital of the kingdom of the dwarves. Everything seems to be for the best, but it shall not last.

As Alistair had already figured out a long time ago, somewhere between the moment he met her and a few hours later, Deirdre Tabris was indeed completely insane. She did, however, make a strong case in favour of Nathaniel Howe. The young man didn’t know what his father was doing, he had no idea, he spent the whole duration of the civil war of Ferelden somewhere in the Free Marches, all of that. Still, the king couldn’t pretend to be completely reassured by the idea of having the son of notorious monster Rendon Howe working for the Grey Wardens. He remembered all too well how the Arl had behaved, his allegiance to Loghain, and what he had done to the Cousland family. The tale of how the men of Arl Howe had seized the castle of the Couslands and murdered the Teyrn, his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandchild had given him nightmares. 

But Deirdre said it was fine and Alistair trusted her. Besides, he wasn’t a Grey Warden anymore. He had to let go -- even if it was difficult, sometimes. Sometimes, late at night, he still thought of Duncan, of the taint that was slowly eating their souls, of the inevitable coming of a new Blight. The idea of Ferelden,  _ his _ Ferelden, destroyed again by darkspawn wasn’t one he was ready to deal with. Not quite yet.

The pair fell asleep in the early morning, her still using his belly as a pillow (he had gained a bit of fluff as his duties as king kept him away from the battlefield and Deirdre absolutely adored that fact), him wrapping a protective arm around her body. She didn’t need protection. In fact, she was protecting him much more than the opposite, in many ways; most of which did not involve a sword. It was something that he worshipped about her: her ability to kick ass way better than he had ever done. But when she was asleep, her body all curled up against his, he remembered that she shared his trauma, his nightmares, that she knew pains he couldn’t even fathom, and he held her tight whilst she slept to ward off the memories.

One day, an Archdemon would show up in their dreams again. They would both wake up in a sweat, cling to each other, and know it was time to fight another Blight -- or die trying. Deirdre longed for it. He knew it, despite her never mentioning such a thing. She enjoyed being an Arlessa, having people to care for, being directly involved in the reconstruction of Ferelden. She liked the idea of the alienage being a bannorn and supervised the involvement of her elven brethrens in the government closely, baring her teeth at anyone who’d have dared criticize the king’s decision to grant her this boon. She had convinced him to offer land to the Dalish elves, to relax the rules surrounding the Circle of Magi, she had spent weeks traveling the country helping communities rebuild their homes. 

But that was the problem. Deirdre couldn’t just stick around, remain at court, enjoy his company and spend time with her family. One day, she would leave. She would perhaps go to Antiva to help Zevran take over the Crows, search for Leliana and assist her in whatever duty she was performing, go look for Morrigan. And one day, she wouldn’t return.

That thought terrified him.

  
  


When the message from Orzammar came, Deirdre almost jumped to the stables to retrieve Dagobert and her bags. It took a lot of arguing and even more kissing to convince her not to leave at once. 

“You might be needed in Amaranthine,” argued the king. “You might be needed  _ here. _

\- But it’s a ceremony to honour the casteless who lost their life defending Kal’Hirol, which is on my Amaranthine territory, so really, I  _ have _ to go. 

\- You do realize there are still pockets of Bhelen partisans in Orzammar who would love to see you dead, right? And probably darkspawn lurking in the Deep Roads? Even if they made the road to Kal’Hirol safe…

\- Are you saying I can’t take a bunch of hurlocks and political agitators?

\- You can take them in your sleep, but causing a riot in Orzammar is the last thing you should be doing right now.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Still, the thought of going on a trip to the dwarven city and celebrate with them sounded far too good to pass on. Deirdre had never been one to refuse a bottle of wine. Or whisky. Or anything that could burn her throat to a satisfying degree. She wasn’t quite certain about dwarven food but surely she could find something that would do its job -- namely, work as a sponge for all the alcohol she was planning on drinking. 

“Darkspawn has been extremely quiet since we defeated them at Amaranthine. The Architect’s disciples have retreated deep underground and nobody has heard from anything suspicious happening anywhere,” she argued, arms folded on her chest.

“And that, in itself, is suspicious,” replied Alistair.

Another point for the king. The Architect was a very peculiar darkspawn who could speak and think for itself -- or himself, as the case may be -- and had taken it upon himself to free his brethrens from the voices of Old Gods. His purpose, as he claimed, was to end the cycle of Blights that plagued Ferelden and destroyed so many of his own kind by liberating the darkspawn from the influence of the Archdemons. Perhaps unwisely, Deirdre had chosen to end his life instead of allowing him to pursue his activities. Although none of his followers had seemed to seek revenge, it was bound to happen; and the existence of talking, intelligent darkspawn was not something to be taken lightly. Surely some would long for her death.

“I can deal with whatever comes my way. Don’t worry, Alistair, I swear to you that nothing bad, nothing worse than ordinary at least, nothing will happen. 

\- At least take some allies with you. Oghren, maybe, and that mage, Anders. They’re still in Amaranthine, aren’t they? 

\- I notice you’re not suggesting I take Nathaniel with me.

\- Oh, so we’re on a first name basis now?

\- You’re being jealous again. 

\- At least that one didn’t call you a  _ deadly sex goddess _ right in front of me, I guess that’s a good start. 

\- Are you saying Zevran was wrong?

\- I’m saying Zevran was right, you are exactly that, and I’m also saying I didn’t like that he said it before I could come up with the idea. But you’re changing the subject! It’s not a matter of being jealous or anything. At least I know Oghren. Or you could take Wynne, I think she’s… somewhere, around. 

\- I met her in Amaranthine. I think she’s busy at the moment. But fine, fine, I will take a crew with me.”

That was all he could hope from her.


	4. Orzammar's finest

Ten days later, the Warden Commander showed up at the gates of Orzammar, flanked by a red-haired dwarf who was already drunk beyond hope, a gigantic Mabari who drooled liters by the minute, and a slightly unnerved blonde mage ranting about leaving his kitten behind. 

Oghren had been the first to answer Deirdre’s plea to come along to the ceremony, much to her surprise. She never questioned him on the subject and simply figured that he had moved on from his wife Branka’s death, accepted her fate, and found a good reason to go roll under a table in Orzammar. Anders had followed suit quite quickly. He had stayed with the Order at the Keep to train the new mages and it seemed that he was all too happy to leave his duty behind for a bit, especially if it involved drinking and having fun. Something, however, seemed rather off about him -- but Deirdre was not one to press the matter any further. As for Oghma, the dog, he had accompanied her everywhere, and when given the chance to join her underground, had not hesitated a bit. The prospect of trying nug meat certainly explained his enthusiasm.

When she had left Orzammar for the last time, Deirdre had hoped that her choices would have made the city even more vibrant than it was. She had been tasked with choosing between two candidates for the throne and had decided to give it to Lord Harrowmont, a traditionalist -- which was decidedly not her cup of elfroot tea -- but a good man, or so she had thought. 

Instead, she found the city locked up on itself, its trades with the surface almost stopped, and the discrepancies between the Diamond Quarter and Dust Town stronger than ever. As dwarven guards saluted her and officials greeted her arrival, she could not force a smile upon her lips. Harrowmont had seemed like the best choice. Bhelen, his opponent, had been the kind of man who was bound to become a tyrant and suppress rebellions in the worst of ways. He had sworn to take over the throne even if it meant murdering everyone who did not support him and that, as far as Deirdre was concerned, did not sound like a healthy basis of government. 

It had all seemed rather obvious at the time. Choosing Harrowmont. Killing Branka, the Dwarven Paragon who had built her power on the capture and subsequent enslavement of her fellow dwarves; destroying the Anvil of the Void, her tool to achieve invincibility. With it, she transformed living beings into stone golems who had no choice but to her bidding. She had let the women who accompanied her be turned into broodmothers for the darkspawn, she had never shown an ounce of mercy, and was quite obviously insane. 

So yes, it had all seemed obvious. Seemed like the right thing to do. Destroy evil. Put a good man on the throne. Hope for the best.

And the best did not come.

  


It felt most awkward to sit in the Royal Palace of Orzammar by a table that was covered in food and fine drinks, surrounded with noble dwarves discussing their new endeavours to increase their riches, the expeditions that they were planning in the Deep Roads, knowing that none of them had ever stepped foot down the haunted paths below the capital. None of them had ever fought a darkspawn. They deemed their lives far too precious for that.

Oghren, faithful to his usual self, did not notice anything. He was already on the verge of passing out and had consumed twice in weight in alcohol. After meeting the nobles of Orzammar, the Warden understood him quite well, and decided to pour herself another glass of whatever was available. Anders had chosen to pretend to be more stupid than he actually was and buried himself in deep contemplation. Oghma the dog, of course, had no opinion on anything.

She was on her own. For a second, she wished that Alistair could have been by her side. If she was Deirdre Silvertongue, the mythical warrior who could persuade anyone to eat their left foot or intimidate a dragon into showing its belly with the right words, she was also far from being a diplomat. He had learnt to be one, learnt to use his natural charm and his neverending jokes to his advantage. And as he got better and better at defusing tensions, she got increasingly good at creating them.

“So, Commander,” asked a noble whose name had escaped her about a second after she learnt it, “what do you think of the Diamond Quarter? I daresay it’s improved quite a lot since the last time you were here! You seen the Shaperate? It’s got emeralds in the door now.”

She nodded as politely as she could. Emeralds. Well  _ that  _ wouldn’t help much against a future Blight - but none of the other guests felt concerned by that. When it came to fighting darkspawn, they had an endless supply of casteless people to send down the Deep Roads.

It was almost a relief to have King Harrowmont sit down beside her. If her respect for the man had been severely diminished by his attitude towards the class differences in his capital, she still held him in a higher regard than most of his peers. He was, after all, a good man. She hoped it hadn’t changed.

“Well, that was an interesting ceremony,” smiled Harrowmont. “More wine? Yes, you did us a great service by bringing back the tablets from Kal’Hirol. We have cleared the path leading to it and are slowly reinvesting the thaig. Soon, it will be back to its former glory. And we have you to thank for that, Warden.

\- Me and the casteless who died protecting Kal’Hirol against the darkspawn,” she pointed out, a tad bit more bitterly than she’d hoped. “The men and women you honoured tonight.

\- Ah, yes, yes. Well, you know what they say -- those people are like weeds. They’re resilient.”

Deirdre bit her tongue. She was in Orzammar in an official capacity. Speaking her mind would lead to Ferelden being at war with the dwarves and that could not happen. Not whilst there was still so much to do on the surface to repair what the Blight had destroyed. 

“Of course, there’s gonna be a plaque or something in the Commons. Hopefully that should satisfy the casteless here. They’ve been quite a pain in the neck.

\- And why is that?” 

Maybe her tone had not been quite as pleasant as she had hoped, for Harrowmont cast her a glance that was all but forgiving. 

“I’ve done a lot for Orzammar. Made a lot of changes. Now the Diamond Quarter is richer than ever and the thugs can’t even go to the Commons and put their filth everywhere. Since you defeated this criminal, Jarvia, it’s been easier to take down the smugglers and bandits that terrified the good people of our city.

\- By force, I presume? 

\- Well, someone had to make sure everything went smoothly down there. We can’t have the casteless misbehaving when the darkspawn is still a threat.

\- As a matter of fact, I believe that they’ve receded, given the Blight is over.”

Harrowmont simply shrugged her comment off and poured himself yet another glass of alcohol. 

“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re a stranger to our customs and I presume that you look upon us with little magnanimity. But you see, Warden, it’s necessary to have such a lower class. No society can prevail without it. It’s the best incentive you can imagine. Don’t do anything to become like them, basically. Don’t bemoan your fate, it could be so much worse. Work hard, and you’ll reach the upper layers of society. It’s encouraging, really.”

Deirdre choked on her wine, finding herself unable to formulate an appropriate answer. 

“The war has killed many and destroyed even more. The casteless are here to remind us that our fate could be worse. 

\- Yes -- you could be left alone to defend an entire city, abandoned by those who are supposed to care for you, and only remembered centuries later when it doesn’t matter to you whether you get to be honoured or not.”

The entire table fell silent, save for a resounding burp from Oghren’s side.

Fortunately, or perhaps not much so, King Harrowmont never got the chance to reply -- for the doors to the dining room were suddenly busted open and a bloody nug thrown in the middle of the table.


End file.
